inkblots
by winter's etude
Summary: i kissed your shell close, and then you were gone. -—mollyii/fredii, for when dreams become reality.


**inkblots**  
i kissed your shell close, and then you were gone. -—mollyii/fredii, for when dreams become reality.

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**disclaimer**: © jkr

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He always liked to write. From a small boy, his imagination ran wild, his mind taking everything in sight and creating his own separate fantasy. His notebooks were full of scrawled words that fabricated her heart, the thoughts and actions and pure emotion that she feels. Her smile was worth more than a thousand words to him, paragraphs upon paragraphs and entire chapters dedicated to the significance of her slight grin, and when he tells her, she simply gives him one of her snarky smiles and it's all good again.

He writes of her crimson curls and blood-red lips, and the way the wind picks up her green-and-silver scarf and twirls it around her body in an elegant symphony. He observes her as her body shakes and shivers down to the bone and anxieties attack, but there's nothing that he can do about it, she won't let him in.

"Fred," she says one day, the autumn breeze rolling in, leaves shuffling at their feet. "Would you care if I died ?" The question shook him, the cold breathing underneath his dark skin. He looked at her then, the specks of gold in her green eyes shining brightly, as the moon found its way behind her.

"Of course I would," he says, with all of his heart. "I love you." She laughs at his face, curls spilling over her freckled face, the idea seemed to be ridiculous in her eyes.

"Nobody loves me, mah dear," she says, mimicking an accent that he hasn't even heard of before, and it's all of him trying to smile as she goes off into the night, her head a beacon, the moon following her as she goes.

But he really did.

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He dreams of her one night. It's of her screams echoing in his mind, lips stained with blood, life leaking from her body in the night. The moon has not been lit, the only company of hers were the arms around her body, suffocating, breaking her fragile bones. He reaches out, only creating ripples in the woven fantasy. He wakes up gasping, all of the air gone, and his heart trying to breathe as well.

Ink splatters across the parchment as he scribbles rapidly, a wicked story fabricated by lies and dreams and_ her_, and the only thing that has been going through his mind was the look in her eyes when she had been swallowed by the darkness. The sun had rose and set twice, until he finally did put his quill down, ink blotting his glasses with streaks, callouses on his hands. He collapses on his bed that night, dreaming of sweet dreams and a land where she would have loved him.

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He wakes up with ice-cold water on his face. The first thing he sees were of his eyes staring right back at him. He grabs his glasses off the night stand and manages to knock over a lamp in the motion. He recognises his sister's voice coming from the kitchen, complaining about something, and he strides into there with a disgruntled face.

Roxanne stares at him with some disgust and he had a sudden urge to check his face for dirt and fix his stained pyjamas. She raises her eyebrow at him, arched and high, and he just laughed at her. "What? Haven't you seen me sleep before?"

She slaps his cheek and holds him down on the kitchen table whispering profanities into his air and all he's wondering what he did wrong this time. He sees a cold, dead look in her eyes, and he stops laughing as she whispers into his ear, "Your cousin _dies_ and you have the decency to laugh? Of all people ... I would have thought that you would have been more mature than this, Fred."

The first thing that strikes him was of his dream and his story, the lies and the thorns wrapping around her ankles, pulling her in. Molly Weasley the Second was dead. His dream was actual reality. He killed her. His fury overcame his nature, sleepwalking with the worst purpose. The quietest of people always have the wildest of imaginations.

He holds onto his sister tightly, her own tears mixing in with his, and there's nothing left of him but an empty shell. The owl sings its harmonious tone and the gusts of the night join into the sorrow of death's call.

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**a/n**: Well, that took longer than expected. I know that mollyii/fredii isn't a pairing most people don't usually read of, so all reviews are encouraged. And if any errors are presented, constructive criticism is welcome.

-—Samantha


End file.
